


perfect blue evening

by rathalos



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, listen i think they're in love......, trans girl chrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24760588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathalos/pseuds/rathalos
Summary: Chrome giggles, the sound echoing off the walls of the buildings lining the empty road. M.M.’s heart most definitely does not flip-flop around in her chest. And no matter what anyone says—especially that traitorous little kernel of longing lodged deep inside her chest—she does not want to hear it again.
Relationships: Chrome Dokuro/M.M.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	perfect blue evening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [basedfran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/basedfran/gifts).



> title from [Night Swimmers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EXOmH_JNzDY) by Foals. it's one of my favorite songs (i say this about every foals song, dear god someone help me)!!!!
> 
> content warnings: implied murder/assassination, occasional mention of blood (no major characters are hurt or bleeding)

“Em?”

M.M. pauses from where she’s putting her combat clarinet back together, meticulously wiping gore off each segment that she inspects. It’s not the most practical weapon, but for the most part, M.M.’s preference for style over function has never led her astray.

“Em?” Chrome repeats, looking over toward M.M. with furrowed brows.

M.M. twitches.

A few months ago, Chrome had gotten it into her head that the two of them should be friends. Not rivals, not frenemies, not even acquaintances, but proper friends. After soliciting the advice of her fellow Guardians, Chrome had come to the conclusion that giving M.M. a nickname would help to “bring us closer together,” or whatever Chrome had said when M.M. had first grilled her over it.

(M.M. would sooner die than admit it’s working, but—it’s working. Kind of.)

“Don’t call me that,” M.M. says, because she has an image to uphold. She clicks her tongue. “What is it?”

Tellingly, Chrome doesn’t apologize or correct her use of the nickname. M.M. has complained about it to Mukuro more than once, but he just thinks it’s funny—and yes, M.M. fully realizes she’s the fool for thinking Mukuro would do more than point and laugh.

“Well . . . ” Chrome fiddles with the handle of her trident, indecisive and unsure, before eventually concealing it entirely with an illusion. “I . . . ”

“Spit it out already, or save it until we get back home,” M.M. snaps. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re not exactly in the best place for idle conversation.” She squints at Chrome’s skirt. “And your clothes are filthy. I’d burn that if I were you.”

Chrome’s eyes flick downward to her blood-stained skirt, and she mumbles something about always needing to replace her outfits, before layering an illusion over her clothing as well. M.M. wrinkles her nose in distates. It’s better than nothing, she supposes.

“Um, anyway . . . you know a lot about—about makeup, right?” Chrome asks.

For all that Chrome has mastered the art of illusions, to M.M. she’s always been like an open book, broadcasting everything she’s feeling to the entire world. M.M. reads the embarrassment right off her face, the tentative trust, the insecurity, and she heaves a put-upon sigh.

“Really? Who do you think I am?” M.M. asks, setting her clarinet inside its case, snapping the clasps shut, and jerking her head toward the door. It’s not a graceful movement, rough and off-balance, but her hands are full and it’d be even worse to point with her legs. “I know _everything_ about cosmetics.”

“Then, w-would you help me?” Chrome asks, casting an illusion over the inside of the room to make it look quiet and peaceful. M.M. prides herself on being able to see through most Mists’ Flames, but Chrome always manages to fool her. Try as she might, she can’t catch a hint of the carnage that took place only ten minutes ago. “With . . . um . . . could you show me how?”

The two of them will be out of the country before the head of this family returns and discovers their handiwork. To be honest, M.M. feels a little devalued. She knows she’s only a low-ranking officer and no one would trust her with the high-paying work, but for one thing, a toddler could have handled this job, and for another, she doesn’t need Chrome to come along to babysit her every time she’s sent out solo.

At least she doesn’t have to split the pay; if that were the case, she would have ditched the Varia years ago. Viper knows this, which is probably why they had agreed to let M.M. keep the full share.

She walks with Chrome to the exit of the building, side by side even with the nagging, persistent thought that M.M. should be a few steps to the front, in the lead where she belongs.

“What makes you think I’ll help you?” M.M. finally asks, once the two of them are outside and the cool night air is nipping at M.M.’s face. “I’m a busy woman, Chrome, and I don’t do anything for free.”

“Because you’re very n-nice to me,” Chrome says. “And you helped me with my outfits too.”

“Nice—!? I’m not nice, and if I catch you telling people I am, no one will ever find your body!” M.M. says. She takes a deep breath. “I didn’t mean that. You—you catch me in weak moments. That’s all.”

“If you say so,” Chrome says gently, sounding more confident than she’s been the entire night, and the sight of her smile is enough to kill the snappish retort M.M. had been prepared to fire off.

“I _do_ say so,” M.M. says, and then, in a more serious tone of voice—because she’s capable of recognizing when Chrome really, truly needs something from her, “Did someone tell you to put on makeup? You know you don’t have to, right? You won’t be any less of a girl if you don’t put eye shadow on, or whatever it is you want me to help with. You’re still you, either way.”

“I know,” Chrome says, staring at her with those wide, purple eyes of hers. M.M. bites the inside of her cheek. “I thought of it myself.”

There’s a certain brand of timid stubbornness that only Chrome can pull off, like a mouse who refuses to scurry away when you sweep your broom at it. M.M. can’t count the number of times she’s been subject to this expression, but, damnit, she gives in every time.

“You can still be pretty without it,” M.M. says, one last time to make sure Chrome is getting the message. A few seconds pass in silence while she mentally reviews that statement, and tries to pick apart what had seemed wrong about— _oh._ “Not that I’m calling you pretty!”

Chrome giggles, the sound echoing off the walls of the buildings lining the empty road. M.M.’s heart most definitely does not flip-flop around in her chest. And no matter what anyone says—especially that traitorous little kernel of longing lodged deep inside her chest—she does not want to hear it again.

“I know,” Chrome repeats, traces of humor still clinging to her smile. “I still want to.”

“Good for you,” M.M. says. “When did you get so assertive, anyway?”

Chrome shrugs. “You told me to be.”

Damn right she did, and—oh. Oh. Chrome had taken that to heart.

M.M. tightens her already nearly white-knuckled grip on the handle of her clarinet case, and in another display of extreme uncouthness, scuffs her heel against the sidewalk, saying, “I guess I could show you the basics. Remind me when we get back home.”

Chrome’s subsequent grin is bright enough to blind, and as they round the corner of the street, M.M. has to avert her gaze in order to prevent Chrome from seeing the heat rising to her cheeks. Stupid, _stupid_ emotions.

“I will,” Chrome agrees. “Thank you, Em.”


End file.
